Desert Secrets
by Lady Flick
Summary: A Prince fighting to claim his throne, a Gypsy dragged into his cause, and a journey to atone for the blood-splattered history of their people. AU ZUTARA and BluePainted.
1. i

**Desert Secrets**_

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_prologue._

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The sun rises in the desert, bringing with it a scorching and unforgiving heat. Shadows stretch across the barren wasteland, casting stripes along the uneven slopes. Little life flourishes in the merciless terrain, villages few and far between. Perhaps the only thriving city is that of Lord Ozai's kingdom. Towers and tiers break through the morning sky and peek over the impenetrable walls guarding his precious empire from outsiders, because land beyond those walls is dangerous and only death welcomes any who dare step out into The Waste.

Zuko watches the morning burst into the sky as the lights bleed from crimson to gold to pink to violet and it seems as though time stops for the sake of such beauty, before the colors fade to a constant and vast blue. Afterall, things of true beauty and brilliance are only fleeting – it is part of their wonder.

He leaves his balcony then, pushing through the gauze curtain and heads inside his royal chambers where attendants are already inside, eager to assist him.

"Greetings, Sire," they murmur together in a singular voice that the prince cannot differentiate.

He nods in turn, sparing no reply as he holds out his arms for them to remove his robes and the three attendants immediately take to stripping him of his satin sashes and lead him towards his bath. Zuko settles in the water, cool and refreshing, a welcome change from the heat of the morning, and he sinks deeper as his attendants mix in scented soaps and massage his hair with special oils. It is silent save for the sounds of his bath, water splashing occasionally, the shuffling of his servants' sandaled feet along the tiles. He closes his eyes, breathing in the soothing aroma, and sinks deeper into the water so only his eyes are not submerged.

When he finishes, he climbs out and a robe of the softest fabric is wrapped about his form, and the return to his chambers where his outfit is laid out onto his large bed. An outfit of white and gold rather than his usual red sits atop his satin sheets.

A knock at the door brings his attention to the door and one of his servants opens it, bowing. The others take their positions on their knees, arms reaching out over their heads, stretched along the floor.

"General Zhao," Zuko welcomes his guest.

The man standing at the door way sweeps into a graceful bow before straightening up and flattening out the wrinkles of his formal wear. "Forgive my intrusion, Prince Zuko, but I simply wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your marriage."

"I am not married yet."

"Ah, but you will be this morning," Zhao reminds him, "But I will not be attending the wedding." He shifts on the spot, struggling with a helmet tucked beneath his arm, and he smiles congenially at the Heir to the throne. "Your father has sent us on a mission to..._negotiate_…with the village of the East. We leave within the hour – but, congratulations, Sire. I am sure your marriage with Lady Mai will bring you eternal happiness."

His words are empty, spoken only out of politeness, and Zuko nods his thanks, only out of respect.

Both men know the marriage with Lady Mai is nothing more than a formality. In order to ascend the throne after his ill father passes, Zuko must have a woman at his arm.

"I wish you…success," the general finishes, "I am sure you deserve all that will come to you."

When he leaves Zuko glares at the threshold, wondering at the general's words, before dismissing his attendants. They avoid his eyes as they leave the prince to his thoughts, all save for one, still kneeling on the floor.

"I said you are dismissed," Zuko repeats, harsher this time, but the man does not move. "Did you not hear me? I said you may go!"

The man's shoulders shudder as he laughs into the tiles that are pressed against his lips. "I heard you, your majesty." His voice is distorted with his stifled laughs. "But I am afraid I cannot leave yet." And he lifts his head so his gaze meets the prince's. "I have orders, Lord Zuko."

"Orders?" The Heir demands, frowning at the servant and making a mental note to punish him for his disobedience. "What orders? From who?"

And just as swiftly as morning bursts into the sky, so is the darkness that strangles his yell for the guards.

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**i.**

_What becomes of a man who is defined as his title?  
What becomes of a Prince without a kingdom to rule?_

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Zuko's eyes stung as he woke from a fitful sleep, rough, jagged rocks pressing into his flesh. He sat up, head spinning in protest, and everything seemed to bombard his skull, creating an uncomfortable pulsing sensation. Pain throbbed at his temple, and Zuko cringed at the unwelcome greeting, doubling over in an uncontrollable attempt to relieve the ache. Whatever gruel was forced down his throat during his abduction surfaced once more and he coughed onto the charcoal-colored land, heaving what little contents were left in his stomach. Zuko writhed at the feeling and stood on shaky legs covered in scars and bruises. Fresh blood was at his lips and he ran his tongue across the chapped skin there, glancing around the area. None of it seemed familiar, save for the pictures in books he had seen in the royal library, books that spoke evils of the Waste and the death that welcomed its wanderers.

"_No_," the prince gasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. "_No_, it can't be!" Panic gripped him as he whirled around, desperate to find something, anything, that looked familiar, that looked like home. Boulders stretched on for miles, and where there were no rocks, there was only sand. Everything was black – a deep charcoal color that reminded him of what remained after a fire.

After the initial groggy moments of his jarring wake, reality settled upon the prince. He was there, in the Waste, alone without food or water, or _clothes_, for that matter.

"_No_," he said again, more distinct this time, moving swiftly along the rocks and ignoring the scratches and heat his bare feet faced. "_This can't be!_" Zuko exclaimed in rage when only more blackness appeared in the distance. "What _happened_," he wondered aloud, his breathing harsh as he sat upon a particularly large boulder, the warm dusk heat providing at least a little comfort.

He tried to remember the events prior to waking up alone and abandoned, but his mind was still unclear, the memories twisting in his head until everything was nothing more than a blur.

Zuko dropped his face into his hands in a futile attempt to calm himself.

The sound of horses drew his attention to the horizon where a band of _people_ rode across the desert. Zuko stood at once, raising his chin in a regal manner, and waved them over as they approached. They appeared to be bandits or else dangerous, and Zuko refrained from demanding they return him home.

"I'm lost," the wounded and naked man said instead. "Someone abducted me and left me here for dead." His golden eyes stared down the rider who seemed to be the leader, bringing in the front with a posture befitting someone in command.

The strangers' faces were hidden beneath scarves that matched the terrain, only their eyes could be seen, eyes of varying wisdom and personalities, but all hardened from life in the Waste. The man on the blackest mare dismounted then, and removed his scarf, revealing a young face beneath it, a face that could not be much older than Zuko. "Here," the bandit offered, handing him the veil with a haughty smirk, "I think the Waste is shocking enough without you baring all."

Chuckles emerged from the rest of the men and Zuko scowled as he snatched the rough fabric, tying it about his waist.

"You can ride with Smellerbee," the stranger stated as he pointed over at a rider who must have been a young boy. The leader _leapt_ onto his mare, and signaled for the others to move out.

The prince waited for someone to aid him atop the horse, but Smellerbee only scowled down at his expectant stare. "What'cha waitin' for?" He asked abrasively. "Someone t'help y'up?"

Zuko reddened slightly but bit back his response, grasping onto the saddle with two hands and hoisting himself behind the rider. The seat was uncomfortable, more-so due to the fact that he had only a sash to keep from chafing, and he shifted uneasily on the mare.

"Y'better hold on tight," Smellerbee warned as he kicked his horse into a full gallop to keep up with the others.

They rode for hours, it seemed, through the heat, and Zuko could feel the sweat drip down his face. How could these men wear such clothes and appear as though the heat had no effect on them? Smellerbee had mentioned something about the fabric itself – light and airy – not that the prince was aptly listening. It seemed that he had been stuck with the most talkative of riders; Smellerbee was eager to divulge all about his little clan of bandits.

"No," Smellerbee corrected, "Not _bandits_. Freedom Fighters. We're good guys."

Either way, Zuko couldn't complain, if it wasn't for them, he'd likely still be wandering alone.

He learned that the leader's name was Jet, and that the bandits—_Freedom Fighters_—were all victims of Lord Ozai's army, except for Smellerbee, whose home was attacked by strange Mages of the Desert. They were all wanderers now, creating a single family from broken, mismatched pieces.

"What makes these Mages so powerful?" Zuko inquired, hoping to move the subject away from his home, amber gaze scanning the slopes for any sign of the danger he probably couldn't recognize even if he saw it.

"They control the sand," Smellerbee explained simply, as though it was general knowledge – and perhaps it was general knowledge in the Waste, Zuko wouldn't know. "I call'em Sandbenders. There's a ring to it, don't'cha think?"

It was remarkable, the boy's optimism even in the face of such disaster.

Eventually the group found a place to rest and Zuko stood aside as they set up their camp. Unpacking bags and unfolding tents and building a fire – they each had their own job to do, even Jet, the leader, helped with the chores. It was strange to watch, everyone doing their part, all Zuko had ever known was servants he couldn't recognize tending to his needs.

"You just going to stand there or are you going to help?" Jet called as he struggled with pitching a tent.

Zuko moved towards him, unsure of what to do.

"Just hold these pegs down here," the man instructed, tapping each one with his foot. Zuko did as he was told and Jet slipped the pole up the center of the tarp, before moving to the other side and hooking a rope onto the two pegs there. "Alright, now, you see the ropes on your side? Hook it like I just did."

Zuko spotted the looped hooks and secured first one about the wooden peg, and then the other.

"Thanks," Jet replied, casually as they convened around a large bonfire. "You're not the camping out type, are you?"

"Uh, no," the prince answered.

A bowl was handed to him by a boy he later learned was called The Duke, and inside it was a chilly and unappetizing soup dish that the others eagerly partook. "I'm…not hungry," Zuko said.

Smellerbee only scoffed, "Yeah. That's why you're gut was growlin' the whole ride."

"I know it might not look or smell the best, but it's not so bad," Jet assured.

Zuko brought the bowl to his lips and nearly gagged on its contents.

Jet only laughed. "Well, I never said it tasted the best."

The rest of the night continued in much a similar manner, the people around him laughing and bickering. Zuko scowled into the fire, angry, confused, unsure, and unable to do anything about it. He was outnumbered, several to one – and even if he managed to overtake them, he had no idea where he was or where to go or what to do. He had to rely on these strangers, these _bandits_, with their deplorable manners and crude language and barbaric lifestyle.

"Your scar," Jet whispered when the others were tucked in their tents, "I know who you are."

Zuko hesitated as he stood from his seat around the extinguished fire. "What do you mean?"

"It's a burn scar," the leader said nonchalantly. "You must be a victim of the Arabian soldiers. I'd bet my horse that it was _Ozai's_ men who did that to you. It's alright. You're safe with us. And one day, we will get our revenge."

The next morning he woke with the sun, unable to keep from the habit, and, despite the ugliness of the barren desert, the sky was even more spectacular than he remembered.

"You're an early riser, eh?" Smellerbee asked as he plopped himself down beside the prince. "Me, too. I can only sleep for a few hours every night since my home was destroyed. I think it's because the raid happened when I was asleep…now, I don't want to sleep anymore."

Zuko wondered why the boy was so eager to open himself up, but remained silent.

"You ain't the best conversationalist are'ya?"

"No."

Smellerbee laughed. "S'alright, my best friend's not the talkative type, either."

Zuko did remember. He was the only bandit who said absolutely nothing around the fire, though the name escaped him "Smellerbee," the prince said then, out of curiosity, "Why is it that Jet's recruited all males?"

That earned him a punch as well as a different horse to ride.

Zuko shifted on the saddle, increasingly uncomfortable as the soreness from the other night's journey made itself known. "Is it always so uncomfortable?" He asked of the bandit that was not Smellerbee. The stranger didn't reply. "Where are we going?" Again, no reply. The prince scowled at the irony, but decided to simply enjoy the peace.

It wasn't until later in the afternoon that they reached their destination and he was finally able to dismount the mare.

Jet had led them into small, surprisingly civilized village, and met with a tan-skinned woman with remarkably blue eyes.

Zuko's attention, however, was immediately diverted to a booming voice that came from a man donning a cloak of fur, and Zuko stepped back as the Chief pointed a staff in his direction. Whatever he had said stirred a sudden rage in the atmosphere and all eyes, brown and green and black and blue, fixated on the intruder.

The bandits on whom he relied moved away from him in shock, and Zuko found himself within the direct line of the hostile leader.

"You! How dare you enter our territory!" The Chief declared in a fury, marching towards Zuko.

"Chief Hakoda, there must be some mistake—" Jet began, but he was silenced with a glare.

"You fool, how could you let him deceive you? How can you not recognize the face of the enemy?"

The bandit leader shook his head, stepping forward to plead with the older man. "He is only a victim of the Arabian army," Jet explained, much to the tan-skinned woman's dismay.

She was at his arm, muttering inaudible words that went ignored.

Chief Hakoda scoffed and jabbed Zuko with his staff. "Are you or are you not the Prince of the Land of Fire, boy?"

Spears were pressed against his flesh then, and Zuko knew he couldn't do a thing. Jet couldn't help him. The bandits wouldn't help him. He was at the mercy of these outlandish people.

Even so, he would not be ashamed of who he was.

A simple nod sealed his fate.

"I am."

If he wasn't so proud, he might have felt a twinge of guilt at the betrayal clear on Jet's face.

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**END NOTES;**

- I KNOW I have a whole bunch of other projects to do, what with my revisions for _Memoirs_ and _Sokka's Field Guide II_ still waiting for that last chapter to be finished, but I've been wanting to try my hand at a full-fledged AU zutara story, and, while sitting at the local Starbucks, coffee and notebook at hand, this little idea penned itself out and came to life in my head, and I've actually plotted out far into the chapters.

**- **It may seem like a rather slow and shaky start, for that I apologize, but I promise it will get better. The entire story will be told in a Zuko-centric perspective, and I'm trying to capture it as best I can. Keep in mind he is a Prince and has not had the same issues of banishment as he does in the Avatar series. He has been waited on since birth and, though practiced in the art of swordsmanship and other techniques, is _not_ much of a fighter. Yet. But I don't want to reveal to much, you'll just have to trust me with this!

- I am aware that the prologue is in the present tense. I did that on purpose. The rest of the story will be, like the first chapter, in _past_ tense.

- No worries. Zuko will properly meet Katara in the next chapter c:

- I would immensely love some feedback for this, seeing as it is a relatively new venture! Comments, Constructive Criticism, Questions, the whole shebang!

- Also, forgive the lame title. It is pending D;

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* _for those wondering, I am still debating between writing this or _Aubade_. Because, quite honestly, I may have the first four chapters of __it__ written out, but it's a plot I had come up with a long time ago, one that I'm not sure I'm too interested in anymore._


	2. ii

_Desert Secrets

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**ii.**

_Does he toss his culture, his home to the sand_; _preserve his own existence?  
Or does he wear his colors without shame; value culture over survival?_

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The familiarity of the heat and sun sunk below the horizon, casting the strange village into a muted shade of gray. A darkness far more sinister and threatening than that which had ever graced his home settled in the Waste, in the foreign land – La, they had called it. _La_. Some being or spirit or _god_ they worshiped. _The Water Tribe of La, _the natural rival of his own home. Apparently there were two tribes, one devout to La, and another situated further north, honoring Tui. Not that those names or places or titles meant much to the prince, bound to a pole in an area they termed as _banishment_.

Zuko shivered, the motion reminding him that his wrists were tightly restrained with thick fabric not quite like rope; it was something much stronger. The air in that village was fiercely cold, harsh and unforgiving – was the Waste always so wintry at night? The breeze bit into his bare flesh, raising bumps along his arms, his torso, his legs. A simple loin-cloth lined with fur saved him from indecency, but not much else. Not that people would see him regardless, an outcast, an enemy, _banished_.

Somewhere further off he could hear the sounds of laughter and music; he recalled someone mentioning that day was a festival honoring the Spirits that guarded their tribe, and he couldn't be sacrificed on such a joyous commemoration. Jet told him, rather harshly, that he was lucky those people believed in the mystic arts, or else his head would be atop a pike on a precarious cliff only the elite warriors of the tribe dared conquer.

Zuko tried not to think about the fate that awaited him, the shame that ensconced him, and, after the mental exhaustion of trying to remember just what happened before he awoke in the Waste (and failing), he decided to close his eyes and focus on his home, his palace, his future.

He could see the temple, with its glass windows of various colors, the robust domes, the golden tiers catching the morning sun, everything shimmering, shining, a salvation in the hopeless vast of sand. He could see the altar, decorated in satin fabrics of the deepest red and gold leaf embroidery. He could even see the bride awaiting her husband, the first of the many brides he would be taking, with her distant eyes and her empty expression overlooked by her beauty. Her hands and feet covered in intricate designs of swirls and flowers and similar patterns, perhaps a sun would be depicted in the ink. She would look stunning in her wedding gown; upon her head the most delicate of gauze, perhaps lace of a deep red flattering her admittedly pale complexion. She was a woman worth marrying into royalty.

And though he might not have loved her, might not have exchanged more than a few words with her, Zuko was still very much male, and his bride was admittedly a sight to behold. Born to be the face of a queen; the Lady of the Land of Fire.

But now? Now she would likely be handed to _Zhao_—

Footsteps jarred the prince back to reality where his bride's countenance faded with the breeze, and he shook his head, glaring at the shadowed figure venturing across the abandoned courtyard, the sound of bare feet on moist soil growing nearer and nearer. She – for it was clearly a she – carried a single lantern that burned an odd smelling fuel, though not unpleasant. Zuko's golden eyes never left her form even as she ascended the stone steps and knelt before him, setting the lantern down on the dirt and procuring strips of gauze from beneath her cloak. He watched her move swiftly, purposefully, and wondered if she was to execute him. Perhaps she would kill him with poison. Or perhaps that was fuel she was soaking the bandages in; would she burn him? A fitting end; did these people, perhaps, value irony?

The woman's dark hands appeared even darker in the night, if it wasn't for the pale moonlight that managed to reach through the shadows and silhouette her figure, he might have thought her a spirit. She kept her head down beneath a hood so that he could only see a pair of rouge-painted lips, pursed into a thin line as though chastising him. Markings were drawn down her cheeks, but her eyes remained unseen – he knew, of course, that they must be a foreign hue…_blue_.

After a moment of this outlandish woman tearing strips of gauze and soaking them in the contents of a canteen and other bottles of varying shapes and colors, Zuko ventured to find out just what she had in store for him. "What are you…?" He was silenced, however, by her nimble fingers against his mouth. It was then that he could smell the different soothing oils – it wasn't poison or fuel. It smelled exotic and wonderful and calmed him down, immediately relaxing his muscles at the mere scent.

"You should not speak," the young woman whispered, her voice soft and breathy – _icy_, almost, but that couldn't be. Her fingers left his lips, and she returned to her work by flickering lantern-light, pausing every now and then to make sure the evening air didn't douse the starving flame.

Zuko watched her in silence, reviewing his options. He could kill her. He would make a quick thing of it – a hard jab at the base of her neck. He could don her attire and pretend to be this strange medicine woman. He could bind her to the pole and escape…steal a horse, steal provisions. Surely no one would notice with all the festivities. It was perfect. Flawless. Except for one fact – he couldn't _move_; and thus he was returned to square one.

The woman's advancements were what snapped the captive from his homicidal reveries, and Zuko tensed as her dark hand reached out towards his cheek, an odd-colored substance on her fingers. He flinched at her touch, bracing himself for some sort of stinging sensation, but only felt the cool ointment instantly soothe the scratch he wasn't aware had marred his pale countenance. What was she applying to his wounds? She moved swiftly, addressing each and every one of his injuries, fingers cool and airy, ghost-like caresses across his flesh. With every brush he felt more relaxed, more at ease, and he wondered at the substance she covered him in; a sedative, of sorts? He knew better than to ask.

Once done, she stood and picked up the lantern, the flame within it flared just briefly, lighting her face for a moment – yes, her eyes were blue – before the shadows obscured her identity once more. The woman turned away, tugging the cloak tighter about her, and left him in his _banishment_.

It was only after she had left that Zuko truly felt abandoned and alone.

With morning came a familiar heat, and a drop of sweat trailed down his face, tracing along his cheek, his jaw, before dripping from his chin and splattering against his chest. He jolted awake at the seemingly trivial disturbance and blinked a pair of bleary eyes, waiting for his vision to adjust. He had missed the sunrise, a rare occurrence, and the skies were already a deep blue that mirrored the eyes of his enemies. Silently, he wished he could have been given the small comfort of seeing the dawn skies, the colors, the fleeting magnificence – but perhaps that was too much to ask. He could feel his muscles screaming from soreness, begging for him to move, to stretch, to relieve the discomfort, and he did his best to roll out his shoulders, to stretch out his legs, but to no avail. The prince's wriggled attempts were futile, and he only succeeded in trapping his leg somewhere between the binding and his arm and was thus in a far more uncomfortable position than before. He cursed the strange land that brought with it ill fortune.

A woman passed by the nearby gates into the courtyard, a woman dressed in tattered blue rags that did little to hide her dark skin from the sun. With every step, a basket bounced along her hip, and if he squinted he could see there was some sort of produce peering from the top. She danced up towards him, her bare feet leaving muddy foot-prints on the stone steps, and set down the basket of what he could only assume was food.

"You must eat," she said simply, briskly, as though reluctant to waste her breath on him. "Recover."

Zuko scowled at the girl who couldn't be any older than him, and warily eyed the purple _thing_ she took from the wicker basket. Its skin appeared rather oily, wax-like, and she brought out a dagger, chopping off a slice of the _thing_ that must have been a vegetable or fruit. "I'm not hungry," he answered stiffly, glad that his voice was strong despite disuse.

A perturbed glare flashed across her _blue_ eyes, and she hesitated – he could see the thoughts running through her mind, see her calculate a response. Would she force him to eat? Would she leave him? Would she strike? The woman only let out a sharp sigh, as if refraining from snapping at him, and held the slice of the purple _thing_ at his lips. "Eat," she repeated sternly. "Eggplant is good for you." _Eggplant_. It even sounded unappetizing. Zuko must have made a face because the young woman bristled on the spot. "Stop being stubborn and eat," and she called him a name he couldn't understand. _Fatuue_.

Zuko pursed his lips together, meeting her gaze.

Her _blue_ eyes were unbridled, fierce, but she scoffed, putting away the _eggplant_ and standing from her crouch. "Fine," she snapped irritably, "_Fine_." And then she went off on a rant he couldn't understand, speaking a different language entirely.

"Katara."

The woman – _Katara_ – turned, and her shoulders relaxed and she offered a smile Zuko could just barely see in her profile. He recognized the voice, the ease, the charm behind a single uttered name, and instantly lowered his eyes to the ground. Did he feel remotely guilty about betraying Jet? Not even the slightest. Did he know when to surrender? Certainly. He was in a lose-lose situation; and to escape, if escape was even plausible, he would need to play his cards right. Jet approached them, pointedly ignoring the bound captive in a laughable position, and opened his arms to the dark-skinned woman with _blue_ eyes. She returned the gesture, taking him into an embrace that suggested camaraderie, a platonic exchange – "It's good to see you again." Her voice, however, spoke volumes of something far more than friendship, something that Zuko admittedly didn't quite understand.

Jet held her tighter, almost possessive, and his brown eyes that once offered kinship, reflected the burning turmoil in Zuko's chest. "You as well," he replied into her thick hair. "I wasn't sure if I'd be able to stop for a visit. We've got to take our load to the Eastern Colonies."

They broke apart and _Katara_ hoisted the basket upon her hip once more, not sparing a glance at the prisoner, and went off with the _bandit_ in pleasant conversation. "The Eastern Colonies? Those are dangerous lands! Haven't you heard of the latest attacks…?"

Her voice disappeared as the duo left the open gates, and Zuko was left in his less than accommodating position, finally freeing his leg from its place between his arm and the pole, and grunted as the after noon heat scorched down upon him.

The rest of the day continued in a similar manner. Occasionally that same woman – _Katara_ – would appear and shove various disgusting-looking foods in his face, and he would decline and she would storm off in a huff. Come nightfall, however, it was the chief who had approached bearing no basket or anything other than a staff, and Zuko wondered if blood would be spilled that evening.

The chief was a tall man, intimidating with his sculpted face penetrating eyes. A cape of feathers and fur hung from his broad shoulders, swishing at his feet as he stalked across the courtyard. A circle of three guards followed after him. Warriors, Zuko assumed by the war paint splattered across their faces; they looked like animals the prince had only seen in books from the royal study – _wolves_, they were called. As the quartet neared, he sat up a little straighter and held his head high.

"Prince Zuko of the Fire Kingdom." It was a statement. "Why has Lord Ozai sent you to us?" The chief glared down at his captive, eyes that must have been blue appearing dark and menacing, the blackest of black. He was intimidating in all his chiefly glory, an intricate headdress situated upon his beaded and braided hair, war paint down his chin and across his cheeks, a necklace of fangs and a staff inches away from his own admittedly tall frame gripped firmly in his dark, calloused hand. "What is your purpose?"

Zuko scowled up at the savage, the group of _savages_, and scoffed. "I was not sent," he said clearly, though there must have been a twinge of an accent in his reply that made him difficult to understand. "I. Was. Not. Sent," he repeated, noting the Chieftain's confused and frustrated expression.

"Chief Hakoda," Jet intervened, stepped forward from the circle of warriors behind the leader, "He says that he was not sent to your village." The bandit spoke with a different accent in his voice, the Water Tribe accent of elongated vowels and strange emphases, but the language itself was of the widely accepted Fire dialect.

The tall, dark man nodded. "What proof is there that he is not a spy?"

"We found him, the others and I, in the middle of the Waste. Abandoned, bruised and beaten and bare," Jet explained, pausing every now and then as he thought of appropriate words. All the while he spoke, he refused to meet the captive's eyes, or even spare a glance in Zuko's direction. "We did not realize he was of the Fire Kingdom."

"How could you not!" Chief _Hakoda_ boomed then, waving the staff in Jet's direction, "He bears the Scar! He is heir to Lord Ozai who hath so little mercy that he burns his own kin!"

"He did not _burn_ me!" Zuko raged, chest swelling with pride for his kingdom, his people, his _father_.

All eyes turned to the bound prince, and the chief neared, crouching down to meet is gaze. Stubborn glare for stubborn glare. Zuko was surprised to see that the chief was not nearly as old as he appeared to be, the nearness allowed him to see smooth skin beneath the war paint, and incisive _blue_ eyes that boasted of strength and wisdom. "Then _who_," the older male demanded, trying his best to convey the proper words, "is the flame wielder who has marked you?" He scoffed when Zuko refused to reply, and stood, cracking his staff on the dirt. "He is a pitiful one. None but Denial keeps him company in his banishment." And with that, he turned around and marched off, expecting the others to follow.

Jet remained for a moment, watching the prince, the traitor, the liar, through dark narrowed eyes. "What kept you from admitting the truth to us," he asked cynically, "when we asked you what had happened? Did you think we would kill you?" The bandit studied Zuko for a moment longer, serving a sound kick into his side, sending the captive to the right, only the bindings keeping him from sprawling across the ground – though, if he hadn't been bound, he would have easily countered and attacked in defense. "You were right."

When he left, Zuko was still hanging to his right, unmoving from the boy's assault, the numbing sensation from the blow slowly heating and reddening, stinging. It would have bruised by morning if that same medicine woman from the other night hadn't appeared once more, offering him comfort in the strange land.

She was hidden beneath her hood once again, a straw hat obscuring her eyes. The same red paint tinted her lips, red markings drawn down her face. Her cloak was missing that time, showing off her shoulders in the moonlight. The lantern set her frame aglow, and Zuko could see that red paint swirled down her arms, as well. Again she didn't speak to him, instead addressing the bruise at his side. They remained silent, and she refused to meet his eyes, but as she straightened up and turned away, Zuko whispered a sleepy, "Thank you."

She did not stop to acknowledge it.

The next few days carried on in a similar fashion. That girl, _Katara_, would bring him food and he would refuse. Come nightfall, the chief returned to interrogate him. The questions varied each evening but always involved Lord Ozai.

"What are his plans?" Chief Hakoda had demanded.

Zuko remained silent.

"Does he wish to expand his territory?"

Again, it was met with silence.

The Chief would stalk away in defeat, and it was always Jet who would strike the insolent captive. Once, Hakoda had witnessed Jet's maltreatment and lectured him fiercely, much to Zuko's smug relief.

_That_ woman would also return to tend to his wounds, afterwards. On the fourth night she offered him a bitter-tasting soup. Chunks of _eggplant_ were in it, and Zuko recoiled from the smell, but she held the spoon to his cracked lips and the prince took a sip. It tasted as awful as it looked, but he swallowed and the smile on those rouge-painted lips suppressed his protesting taste-buds.

Still, he couldn't see her face, and still she wouldn't speak to him.

The morning of the fifth day marked a milestone in his captivity – a new face, or rather, a face that was neither Jet nor tanned, crossed the courtyard, and Zuko, after the initial relief, was suddenly guarded. The head of unruly dark hair bounced as the child bounded up the steps and skidded to a halt right before the starved prince. She stared at him, warily at first, eyes darting this way and that, before finally deciding to speak. "It's been awhile," she opened, voice as hoarse as he remembered.

Zuko blinked at the change in dialect.

"Still as talkative as ever," Smellerbee noted with refreshing sarcasm, and, dare he think it, amity. The young girl fell onto her bottom, legs stretched out between them. "Listen, Jet's real wound up 'bout ya' bein' Fire an' all. But t'be honest, we all kind'a saw it comin'…" the young bandit – _Freedom Fighter_, he heard her voice in his head correct him – "I mean, y'were _obviously_ from the Fire Lands. Your eyes prove as much. But none'vus thought you'd turn out t'be the _prince_!" Smellerbee scratched the back of her head then, looking at him impishly. It was rather endearing. "Jet took it real hard."

A moment of silence stretched before Zuko figured there was no harm in answering. "And you?"

"Me?" The child repeated, blinking her wide, brown eyes. "I just figured that I would'a done the same thing, y'know? I mean…f'you're from the Fire Lands, the _prince_, then why in hell would'ya admit that to a bunch of people who hate your guts?" Smellerbee nodded, absently rubbing her nose to relieve an itch, "I might not like you, but I didn't take it as a personal insult that you lied. None'vus did. Well, 'cept Jet, 'course." She folded her legs so that her feet met, forming a diamond. Leaning forward, Smellerbee lowered her voice considerably, eyes not leaving the captive's. "T'be honest, we don't know why Jet's so worked up 'bout it. We've had our share of back-stabbers and traitors—" again, Zuko was envious of the child's nonchalance, "—so we don't get why he's so ticked with you." A sigh, and then their foreheads touched in a manner that made the prince entirely uncomfortable. "Listen, I'm here 'cause we're leavin' and I wanted to say g'bye. I know we're s'posed to hate you on account'a you bein'…well _you_." Smellerbee smiled a toothy little grin and she shrugged. "But I don't. These people'll probably beat the snot outta you, though. So it was nice known' ya!" And with those parting words, she pressed a kiss against his forehead and left just as _Katara_ came by on her daily routine. She blinked as the child sprinted past her, waving a cheerful farewell, before continuing on over to Zuko.

Katara surprised him that day by actually speaking to him rather than ordering him to _eat_. "She is fond of you."

"Jealous?" The prince asked cattily.

The tribeswoman glared and didn't speak to him the rest of the day.

On the seventh evening, a warrior Zuko was able to discern as Sokka visited. He wore no war paint, and for the first time the prince could see the remarkably young features of his face. The boy couldn't be older than him or Jet. Sokka frowned as he knelt to peer into Zuko's face, brows knitted together in thought. "You," he said slowly, prodding the prince in the chest, "Come to kill?" His accent was thick, but the words were distinct. It was clear Sokka rarely left the village was likely never exposed to other languages. Even so, he picked up on the popular Fire dialect rather quickly.

Zuko shook his head _no_, but said nothing more.

Sokka nodded and spat into dirt. Silently, he pressed two fingers into the muddied ground and lifted his hands to the captive's face. He drew upon Zuko's forehead, much to the prince's displeasure, and broke out into a smile. His hand patted Zuko down on the shoulder. "Bring fortune."

Zuko pondered the strange gestures long after Sokka had left and far into the next morning.

It was only when Katara appeared across the muddied grounds did the prince realize he didn't catch a wink of sleep the previous night. A basket of fresh produce bounced on the woman's hip as she advanced and Zuko could see the waxy purple skin of the _eggplant_. She hadn't brought the basket of provisions with her since the first couple of days of his captivity, and so when she set it down before him, he ventured to ask just what she was doing.

Katara gave him a patronizing look, blue eyes betraying the cynicism he knew she was capable of, and for a moment he wanted her to snap at him in that native tongue of hers. She was the only one who bothered speaking it around him – and he managed to catch a few words, matching them to their Fire dialect meaning. But she didn't meet his query with a reply and instead pulled out a green vegetable from the wicker container. "You must eat this," she demanded. "You have not eaten in a week." Something in her voice betrayed hidden knowledge, but he couldn't analyze it further.

"No," Zuko lied, thoughts briefly flitting to the woman in the night who brought him soup that, somehow, kept him satisfied for the entire day, "But I am strong."

Katara scoffed, rolling her _blue_ eyes – Zuko doubted he would ever get used to those eyes. "Strong. That is why you are our prisoner."

"I'm your prisoner because I was outnumbered."

"Because you are _fatuus_."

"I am not foolish," the prince countered adamantly, much to Katara's surprise.

She blinked, eyes round at his reply, but another blink erased her shock. "Fine. If you are not hungry, you may starve. It shouldn't be long before you are out of our hair."

"You will kill me?"

Katara peered at him over her shoulder, situating the basket upon her hip. "Kill you? And spill your unholy blood on our land? Not unless you provoke us. My father has sent word to your king that we have you in captivity. You are to be ransomed."

"A ransom…" Zuko repeated, frowning.

"Payment," the woman clarified, brows raised at his stupidity. "For returning you to them?"

"I know what _ransom_ is!"

"A man named _Zhao_ informed Father that he will be here in three days' time," she huffed, before continuing down the steps and through the courtyard, disappearing beyond the gates.

And Zuko gasped as though he had been drowning but finally managed to break the surface of his watery grave.

"_I have orders, Lord Zuko."_

"_Orders?" The Heir demands, frowning at the servant and making a mental note to punish him for his disobedience. "What orders? From who?"_

_The prince spins around as two men swing onto his balcony, and he reaches for the broadswords mounted upon his wall. The strangers are dressed in black, wearing armor bearing the Fire Kingdom insignia. Before Zuko can yell for treason, the servant who disobeyed his orders wraps a gag about the prince's mouth. Zuko manages to evade any blows, swinging his swords in fluid motion and striking down the snake amongst his attendants._

_He recognizes the man as warrior of the lower ranks who is to be hung the following morning for theft against his Lord. Zuko scowls at the triumphant expression in his darkening eyes as blood soaked through his servants' guise -_ "_With my split blood a new reign shall rule! One of justice!" -__ Zuko wrestles the other pair of intruders away, managing to bind one to a chair and tossing the second over the balcony's edge. He rushes through his room but the dying guard withdraws a dagger and runs a slit down the prince's leg. The injury itself is not fatal, but the manic glint in the traitor's eyes suggests that the dagger is not simply metal._ "_Under General Zhao the less fortunate shall have their reward." _

_Zuko stumbles as his limbs grow heavy and darkness steals him away.

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**END NOTES;**

- FIRST OFF. _An immense thanks to everyone who reviewed and let me know what they thought of this idea! I appreciate your feedback so much, and I hope I replied to everyone. If I haven't, I'm working on it, I promise!_

**- **So this chapter took awhile to write, and I'm not entirely happy with it, but it's starting off a bit slow. If anything was confusing, I'm so sorry, I wrote this over the span of many days, and I didn't write it chronologically, either. I jumped around and added things and moved paragraphs around many times.

- I have plotted out what happens for the next chapter, and perhaps the next after that. Aang makes an appearance sometime soon, and there will be much Zuko and Katara interaction from this point on C:

- I would greatly appreciate feedback, criticisms, suggestions, or any comments you have to offer!

- That being said, I have to admit that I am far more interested in _this_ AU story, rather an _Aubade_, which, I have regrettably lost the third chapter for and am feeling very uninspired for, though I hate to disappoint. I will be focusing more on _Desert Secrets_.

- ALSO, it irritates me that I couldn't really show much of Zuko's personality in this chapter. So far he's been rather apathetic, or else unresponsive. I feel the need to point out that he's basically starving, and his pride refuses to let him eat - save the soup that, though is filling enough, will not sustain a healthy person. He lacks energy and his memories, and he doesn't really have much interaction with many people. Please don't think he's rather bland and boring D; though, if he does come across as that, I suppose I fail as an author right now. Don't worry. He will get his mojo back! -is shot for saying _mojo_-

- The next chapter promises a daring escape, visions, and something akin to ninja!zutara :D


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